


The Fish and the She Wolf

by mandalbrot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandalbrot/pseuds/mandalbrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catelyn worries about her youngest daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fish and the She Wolf

It wasn’t the bruises or cuts that she couldn’t explain that kept her up late at night. It wasn’t the way that Arya could use a man’s weapon better than any of her brothers. It was a mother’s duty to prepare their children for the world, but the world would not be kind to the small girl if these she continued to walk this path. Catelyn would make a point to quietly would take her husband to the side every now and then to try to help him see her way about this. Ned never worried, nor had he ever punished Robb and Jon from showing Arya how to string a bow, or aid her in tormenting in her sister. It always fell to Catelyn. The boys did not stop her from wanting to be a swordswoman, and instead encouraged it. After their lessons they would hide their training weapons for their sister to use, and play with her when they thought she wasn’t looking. Being men, Catelyn knew, they could never understand the worried look in her eye while she watched her daughter pretend to be some knight in a tale Sansa would tell her. They would never understand how when Arya would pick up a wooden sword at seven and run around the yard pretending to be her father during Robert’s Rebellion that her heart would stop in her chest. How could they know that the world does not look kindly upon a little girl who wants to walk in the world of men? 

“That is not how a lady behaves.” Catelyn would carefully attempt to interest her daughter in the ways of a Lady. That didn’t stop Arya from rolling her eyes while her mother attempted to brush the tangled mess of hair. It didn’t stop her willful daughter from ripping the dresses that were sown for her, or skipping her lessons to go play in the yard. 

“Are you finished now?” Arya grumped in the way only a seven year old can and then she was off and running through the kitchen. Catelyn could hear the cook scream as Arya would run underfoot not heeding a word her mother told her.

When Catelyn voices her concerns to Ned about raising Arya like a lady, instead of the wild girl they had before them filled with the spirit of the north. “Ned.” She pleads. “She must be raised like a lady. She will listen to you.” Ned brings warmth to her heart, even here in the cold north, but sometimes when it came to Arya he didn’t hear her.

“She will be.” Ned says firmly. “She is much like my sister with a touch of wolf’s blood, and Lyanna was raised with swords, tourneys, and trouble. She was a lady that the bards would sing of.” He says her name as if he were invoking one of the old gods, breathing life into the dead. “If only she hadn’t…” Ned becomes tight lipped and he is far away from her. 

It is then that Catelyn knows of the small ghost he sees in their little daughter. She wonders to herself if he tries to forget what became of his sister, and that their daughter is not doomed to carry the same fate. There may no longer be dragons, but that doesn’t make either of them sleep easier at night. Catelyn dreams about them. The dragons in the capital and all their fire and with them she sees Brandon and his touch of blood marching straight into the middle of King’s Landing demanding the death of a prince. In return the only death Brandon would find would be his, and that’s only after he watches his father burn. She wakes in the dark and prays that Arya’s touch of wolf blood will not lead her down the path filled with darkness and folly.

The morning finds Arya in another tangled mess, and Catelyn’s heart aching when she finds her daughter behind the sept. Arya’s face is red and sore, her eyes wide and brimmed with tears. The little girl is covered in dirt and her dress is disheveled in a way that only comes from the girl rough housing. She gathers the small wolf child into her arms and holds her close. “What a mess I have seemed to find you in,” She whispers her daughter’s name softly into the girl’s hair. She brushes her hand through it the dark mane and feels the knots gathering under her finger tips.

“Jeyne Poole called me Horseface.” She sniffs into her mother’s shoulder in a way only a child of seven who doesn’t understand does. Catelyn releases her from the embrace and takes a good look at her tiny face, and gently wipes the tears away. “So I hit her… and ripped her stupid doll.”

Catelyn wants to laugh, but doesn’t. She remembers a time when Edmure, Lysa, and herself were in the same dance. “Well, we are going to have to get Jeyne a new doll.” 

“Am I a horseface?” Arya asks before Catelyn can finish, her voice sincere and shaking.

“No.” Catelyn replies, tucking back the small girl’s hair, wondering exactly how she manages to turn it into such a mess. Perhaps all children are beautiful to their mothers, and while Sansa may have a lady’s features Arya had a wild beauty about her that would only grow in time. “You look like your aunt, Lyanna.” 

“The one the dragon stole.” The small girl replies as if reciting a story.

“Yes, and she was quite beautiful. King Robert was even madly in love with her. Sometimes when your father looks at you, he is seeing her alive again.” The tension goes out of her precious girl, and Arya smiles at the thought. “Now, you would be beautiful if only you would brush your hair.” 

Catelyn intends the words to make her laugh, but instead they cut deeply. The small child’s face hardens and the tears are gone. Catelyn’s fierce little warrior carries a touch of wolf’s blood, and the inability to wield brush like a sword. Dresses are worse than chains to the small babe in her lap. She cups the tiny face and brings out a piece of cloth and begins to clean her precious child. “Oh dear, I seemed to have made a clean spot. It seems there is a little girl under all the dirt.” Catelyn kisses Arya’s forehead, and the child holds her tightly in return. She needs Arya to know that she is a lady. That one day she will grow old and marry some lord, she will run his house hold and give him princes, lords, or ladies. That has always been the fate of the high born girls. It was the road she had to walk. She wouldn’t be able to lead an army, or compete in tourneys. The men would laugh, the world would turn and break the spirit of this little one she holds so dear.

“That’s not me.” Is all the little girl says.


End file.
